Meg’s breath caught in her throat. She bit her lip and looked away. “Was,” she whispered, the word almost choking her.

Drake was turning away when he froze. She could see him from the corner of her eye. “Was?” His voice was hoarse, almost harsh. Slowly, he turned and looked down at her, his gray eyes like molten steel. “Are you divorced?”

Meg drew in a deep breath and for a few seconds she said nothing. Then she exhaled and shook her head. “I almost wish that was it.” Her voice came out quiet and calm, so different from how she really felt. “My husband is dead.” She lifted her eyes then, and she could see that her words had shocked him into silence. Eyebrows raised, he looked almost unbelieving but then he let out his breath and his face turned somber as if he was genuinely sympathetic to her loss. “I’m very sorry to hear this. I had no idea.”

She gave a dry, mirthless laugh. “I didn’t expect you to. After all, you know nothing about me. We haven’t seen each other in over ten years.”

The instant the words left her mouth Meg regretted it. She sounded absolutely pathetic. Now what if the man thought she’d been pining for him? She tightened her lips and glared up at him. He’d better not think that because it wasn’t true.

But when she looked up at him there was not a hint of gloating on his face. Instead, his expression was one of concern, even pity. It was clear that he’d been moved by her news.

“Sorry,” she said, wishing she could take back the rash words that had tumbled out of her mouth. As far as she was concerned, she’d made a poor impression on her first meeting with Drake. The best thing she could do right then was leave. She would regroup and come back another day, fresh and strong.

She got up and held out her hand to Drake. “Thank you for choosing me for your project,” she said. “I’ll do my best to give you a memoir worthy of your name.”

He nodded and took her hand in his. “I look forward to it,” he said softly.

They exchanged polite smiles, the smiles of strangers, and then he walked her to the door.

******



“Go, horsey, go.”

Drake groaned under the harsh treatment of his diminutive jockey. He was on all fours, his three-year-old nephew straddling his back with his chubby legs, and he was being whipped soundly with a long ruler.

“Faster, horsey, faster.” The little boy bounced up and down on his uncle’s back but that only made the horsey slow from an already lumbering pace to almost a complete stop.

“Unca,” the boy wailed, “I want horsey to move.” He grabbed the collar of his uncle’s shirt and jerked back and forth. The horse didn’t even budge. Frustrated, he opened his mouth wide and yelled, “Mommy, Unca’s not playin’ nice.”

“Horsey,” came the female voice from the kitchen, “what are you out there doing to my boy?”

Drake gave a soft chuckle. “Not a thing,” he said. “Horsey's just tired. He’s not as young as he used to be.”

The truth was, today Drake was too distracted to focus all his attention on little Andrew. The boy had been riding him for the last twenty minutes and normally he would’ve been rearing up on hind legs, forcing Andy to cling on for dear life as he burst into peals of laughter, but today all he’d done was take him on a rather boring journey from the sofa to the fireplace to the front door and back again. Right now Andrew was none too pleased at his horsey that had suddenly grown super old and cranky. But Drake couldn’t help it. Meg Donovan – sorry, Gracey – had been on his mind since they shook hands and she walked out of his office.